


how dark the silence shines

by anetherealmelody



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Gen, He would do anything for him, Memories, Platonic Relationships, Post L'manberg Election, Stress, Tommy Misses Tubbo, Trust, and wilbur knows that, so would technoblade, wilbur just really loves tommy okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:02:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27440869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anetherealmelody/pseuds/anetherealmelody
Summary: L'Manberg is lost. Tubbo is gone. Techno is here. Wilbur is wary.Tommy...struggles to face reality.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 45
Kudos: 260





	1. aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in this fandom, so I hope I get the characters right! It picks up soon after the L'Manberg election, and differs from canon in that Technoblade does not show up immediately after. It also takes place inside the actual Minecraft world. I really hope you like it! :)

The first day was the shortest. 

The workload overshadowed the memories; their immediate needs blocked the sea of thoughts from flooding in. There were certain things that they _had_ to do—like make sure they had a roof over their heads, and make sure they had a place to sleep and food to eat, and make sure the coordinates weren’t discovered by a bloodthirsty dictator—and night came far too quickly for their welfare.

It didn’t matter. He couldn’t sleep, anyway. He tossed and turned. He knew it bothered Wilbur—who rolled to his side, facing the wall, and scrunched his neck to his chest to block out the noise—but it didn’t matter. He tried to lie perfectly still. He tried to count cows—they reminded him of Henry. He tried to quell the stream of tears.

It was useless. 

Sometime after the moon had peaked but before sunshine’s rays were creeping across the damp grass, he slipped out the door. If Wilbur was awake—which he almost certainly was; neither of them would be getting sleep anytime soon—he didn’t stop him. 

And, really, that was sign enough, wasn’t it? Wil trusted him, but he would never let him go out alone this late at night. He would accompany him, at best—punish him, at worst.

Tonight he didn’t care. Tonight he was broken.

Tonight they were both broken.

It hurt.

He couldn’t let the thoughts in yet, though. It was too soon; there was too much time left. They would suffocate him. Work would keep him distracted. He must put himself to work. 

He kept to the shadows, not wanting to burden Wilbur with bandaging explosion burns or arrow piercings when he returned. He climbed to the roof and organized their rations. He fished. He hunted. He cooked. He gathered.

Morning light trickled in. He was not tired; he was exhausted. He needed to sleep; he did not try. 

Wilbur hadn’t slept, either. It was obvious. They didn’t speak as they hoed the land for planting, as they began to expand their territory—their _home_ —downward, deeper into the ground.

The days only got longer from there. The sun dragged like golden molasses in the sky, urging the moon up from her place of rest, taunting them with its heat and insulting them with its innocence. The sun, after all, didn’t burn the world like people did. The sun didn’t rip apart friendships. 

The sun didn’t tear down walls. 

People did. 

People _do_. People _are_ —even now.

They don’t return to see the regression. Even miles away they hear the construction—or de-construction, he supposes. It starts at dawn and ends at sundown. He wonders if they take shifts. He wonders how Schlatt possibly has compensation for _that_ many workers, working _that_ long of days. He wonders if the workers get compensated at all. 

He wonders if Tubbo is one of them.

He wonders where Tubbo is right now. _Right_ now. Is he at Schlatt’s side? Quackity’s? Is he working at the wall? 

Surely not. He would never pick away at something so meaningful. He would never betray something so important, something of such gravity. Something they had built with their own hands.

Right?

They sacrificed _everything_ to build that wall, to secure that freedom. 

Tubbo knows that. There’s no way he could have forgotten. He remembers. He would never side with Schlatt, with Quackity. They’d all been through too much. 

Right?

He remembers sitting on the bench three nights before the election—biting his nails and hugging his knees to his chest, blinking at the sun that was dwindling beneath the horizon. The light’s golden phase had passed, and the first strands of darkness were sweeping in from the east. Their world was silver and blue.

Silence between them was never empty. Sometimes it filled with sadness, sometimes with hope. Sometimes with unmeasured affection, sometimes with fear, and sometimes with laughter. It was all of those at one point, that night—they were sat on the bench for hours. 

It wasn’t filled with peace, though, until Tubbo said in his usual pensive way, “I don’t think I’m afraid of death.”

Tommy looked at him strangely. 

“I’m serious,” Tubbo continued. 

“I don’t doubt it. I’ve just got a bit of whiplash from following the conversation.”

Tubbo ignored him. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, you know.”

“Death?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright,” Tommy said, not missing a beat. “I have some lava inside, but I can push you off of this cliff, too—though the most honorable route would probably be jumping off yourself, otherwise you’re a coward—and I’ve got a knife, and a bunch of drugs, and a—”

“A bunch of drugs?”

“Well, yeah. Of course. What—you think I threw them all away?”

“Wilbur told me you were going to try and be more responsible. Turn a new leaf, and all that.”

“And you believed him?”

Tubbo turned to him, incredulous. “So you _do_ still have the drugs?”  


“Who else would I trust with them?”

“No one! Burn them!”

“They’re _expensive_ , Tubbo. I’m not about to waste good money.”

“You—but—how did—Wilbur!”

Tommy laughed, jumping off the bench to catch Tubbo’s shoulder before he could find Wilbur and do any damage. “Oh, come on, Tubbo. I know you won’t _actually_ snitch. Let’s just sit and talk some more. We’re having lovely moments.”

“What the hell,” Tubbo said baldly. 

Tommy grinned. “What?”

“You’re a _child!”_

“No I’m not! So are you!

Tubbo’s lips quirked down in the way lips do when they’re struggling not to smile. “You literally just admitted you are,” he said.

Tommy crossed his arms. “I don’t see what _age_ has to do with drugs, so. I don’t care what you say.”

“Age has everything to do with drugs,” Tubbo said, face brightening the way it did when he had the chance to share his knowledge. “The amount you take depends on your age and your weight, you know. Besides, you can’t buy them until you’re a certain age. Actually, did you know that—”

“Yes,” Tommy said, sulking. “I did know.”

Tubbo furrowed his eyebrows. “I haven’t even said it yet.”

“I still know.”

“What is it, then? Can your read my mind?”

“Yes. And it’s stupid, so I’m not repeating it.”

“I don’t think you do know,” Tubbo said. “I don’t believe you.” 

Tommy scrunched his nose as he processed what Tubbo had said. “Wait. What do you mean you can’t buy them until you’re a certain age? They’re _illegal._ That’s what makes me so rich. I have something illegal that no one else can get unless they pay me vast sums of money. It doesn’t matter how old they are.”

“Well, I’m talking about legal drugs.”

“I don’t have those.”

“I know!” Tubbo exclaimed, exasperated. “That’s the _point!_ I’m consorting with a criminal! I’m guilty by association!”

“Yeah,” Tommy said, grinning. “You’re right. I’m famous.”

“How did you—that’s not what I was saying at all.”

“Criminals are famous.”

“Being famous for a bad thing is called _infamy_.”

“Same thing.”

Tubbo swiveled on the bench to face him, leaning back against the arm rest. He furrowed his eyebrows in thought. “Actually,” he said, “now that I think about it, we’re all kind of infamous.”

Tommy stretched his arms above his head. “As long as I’m famous,” he said through a yawn.

“Well, think about it. In Dream’s city, we’re war criminals.”

“You mean in Dream SMP?”

“I don’t like calling it that.”

“Why not?”  


“Because no one will tell me what SMP stands for,” Tubbo said.

Tommy glanced at him. He snorted. “Okay, Tubbo.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

Tubbo glared at him. 

“Anyway, I’m just kidding,” Tommy said. “About the drugs, I mean.”

“I can’t believe I believed Wilbur,” Tubbo grumbled. “I should’ve known you still had them.”

Tommy grinned, and raised his voice to carry into their house. “I don’t have any drugs!”

Tubbo rolled his eyes. “Wilbur’s not in there.”

“’S’alright,” Tommy said, words catching in a yawn again. The darkness was more complete now, and with it came a soft chill. He wrapped his arms around his knees. “He knows I’m not a child. He knows I can handle myself.”

“You _are_ a child,” Tubbo said. 

“No, I’m not.” He set his chin on his arms. “How do you want to do it, then? If you don’t want drugs?”

“Do what?”  
  
“Death.”

Tubbo glanced at him. “I don’t mean I want to die, you know. I don’t want to die right now, or at all. And I don’t mean doing it myself, either, so quit with the suggestions or I’ll think you want me gone.”

A weight raised from Tommy’s chest. “Then why are you thinking about it?”

Tubbo frowned at the grass at his feet. “I just…think it’s possible, you know? Depending on what happens in the election.”

“You think we’re going to die.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Exactly. That’s how I knew that’s what you meant.”

“All I’m saying,” Tubbo said, “is that I’m not afraid of it.”

“Well, I disagree.”

Tubbo turned to him, eyes wide, hopeful. “You’re scared of death?”

Tommy scoffed, affronted, and swallowed his inclination to say yes. “Of course not, you absolute idiot. I’m not afraid of anything.”  


“I know, I know,” Tubbo said, slumping. “That’s what you always tell me. But what else is there to disagree with?”

“I don’t think we’re going to die,” he said, and tried not to dwell on the fact that it was even a consideration; tried not to dwell on the fact that they _were_ children—children at war; children who had to think of things and fear things that they were much too young to understand, that they were much too young to have to worry about—like _war_ and _fighting_ and _enemies_ and _death._

Tubbo considered him, and glanced away. “Something big is going to happen. Even if Wilbur wins, something big is going to happen. I can—”

“If you say you can taste it or feel it in the air or some BS line like that, I swear, Tubbo, we’re never talking again.”

The tension drained with Tubbo’s laugh, even though he _did_ say that he could feel it in the air. Tommy didn’t mind half as much as he pretended to. The shadows lengthened, Wilbur flicked the lanterns on—he _was_ home; Tubbo was wrong—they listened to music, and, as Tubbo was falling asleep with his head on Tommy’s shoulder, he whispered, “Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

“We’ll be okay, won’t we? We’ll win?”

His voice was raw, and Tommy _hated_ it. He hated it, and all he wanted to do was say _yes. Yes, Tubbo. Of course we will. Of course we will, because we’re the good guys, and the good guys always win._

He could not. 

He could not give Tubbo false hope, false expectations. He had no idea what would happen. He could not lie. He was not ready to be responsible for the desperation in Tubbo’s voice. He was not ready to be part of the disillusionment. 

He could not answer. 

So he did not. His eyes were already shut. Even though he had just spoken, he evened his breaths and pretended to sleep. 

“Tommy?” Tubbo asked again.

He swallowed his tears, and—

“Tommy.”

—that…isn’t Tubbo’s voice. 

Tommy blinks.

“Tommy. I need your help.”

He blinks again, harder, forcing the images of the past away, forcing the present to diffuse into his mind.

“I know you can hear me. Snap out of it.”

His head pounds from being stuck so long in his thoughts. He furrows his eyebrows and blinks again, staring at the sheets balled up in his hands and trying to place how they’d got there. 

“ _Tommy_ ,” Wilbur repeats, exasperated. 

“I’m here,” he says, and clears his throat. His mouth is dry. “I’m here. Relax.” He stands from the bed and tosses the sheets aside. 

“That’s five times in the last three days,” Wilbur says. “Yesterday you told me they’d stopped.”

“I’m fine,” Tommy mutters, not meeting his eye. “I’m here now, right? What do you need?”

“I _need_ you to stop leaving.”

“I haven’t gone anywhere!”

“I mean mentally,” Wilbur says, and ducks his head to force Tommy to look at him. Wil raises his eyebrows. “Get out of your head. You’ve gotta stay present. I can’t do this alone. Understand?”

Tommy scowls, pushes past him, and—

“Tommy,” Wilbur warns. “Wait!”

—swings the front door open.

It rams into something. He jerks it forward; it is blocked.

He slips out the tiny opening, scowl fading with new confusion. The midday air— _midday_ , how is it only midday?—is dank and suffocating. 

“ _Tommy_ ,” Wilbur says.

Tommy stops dead in his tracks, eyes stretching wide open as he sees what blocked his exit.

“Hey, Tommy.”

Wilbur pushes through the door. It hits Tommy. He stumbles forward, rights himself, and hardly notices at all. His eyes jump back up to the man in front of him. 

The man he hasn’t seen in ages. The man he most wanted to see. The man he least expected to.

“You came,” Tommy whispers.

Wilbur comes to Tommy’s side. He puts his hand on his shoulder. 

Tommy doesn’t have the presence of mind to shake him off. He stares. 

Techno drops his eyes. He raises a hand to rub the back of his neck. “Uh,” he says. “Yeah. Wilbur asked me to.”

He holds up a stained sheet of paper. Wrinkled script fills the top half of the page. Tommy reaches out his hand in question. Techno complies.

Just as he’s begun to read the letter, though, Wilbur snatches it away. He shoves it in his pocket. Tommy looks at him blankly. 

“It’s a waste of time,” Wilbur says. “You got him here. That’s all that matters.”

“But, Wil—”

“ _No_ , Tommy.”

“I just want to read it. I won’t lose it or tear it or anything, I promise. I just—”

Wilbur spins toward him. His face is hard. His mind is made. 

Tommy wilts. 

Wilbur turns back to Technoblade. “Thank you for coming,” he says, nodding, though his eyes are tight and his voice is wary. “I think you’ll find our relations mutually beneficial.”

Wilbur gestures him forward, and they enter the house together. Tommy goes to follow, but Wilbur closes the door before he steps inside.

Tommy stands completely still, staring at the wood in front of him. A chorus of whispers filter through the door, but their voices are low, and he cannot make anything out. His heart pounds and his head pounds and his fists clench and he turns away. He cannot face rejection. After everything that has happened—after all of—after all—

He cannot catch his breath. He stumbles away from the house. He leans against a tree. He drags his hands down his face and pushes them against his forehead and draws his knees to his chest. Everything, _everything_ is wrong, and nothing is right, and he’s not even sure he can be the judge of that anymore because he hasn’t known right from wrong for a long time. 

He is tired.

He wants to work to pass the time. He cannot stand up. 

The minutes drag and feel like hours. Only a few pass, though, before he hears footsteps emerge from the house. He scrambles onto his knees and pretends to carve the bark of the tree. 

“Tommy,” Wilbur says. “We’re about to eat.”

He says nothing.

“Have you left again?” Wilbur asks. “I told you not to. I need you more than the past does.”

Tommy spins around to glare. 

Wilbur sighs. “Suit yourself. I’ll leave your portion in the furnace.”

He turns and walks away.  
  
“I just don’t want to interrupt,” Tommy calls after him, petty and bitter and biting. “If, you know. You’d rather be alone with him.”

Wilbur turns back only to roll his eyes. He disappears into the house. 

As soon as he’s gone, Tommy slumps back down. The grass soaks his trousers. 

He thinks of things that someone as young as him surely shouldn’t have to think on—walls and dictators and broken friendships; enemies and traitors and hatred and love. He’s so _angry_ at Wilbur, but he’s so _desperate_ to keep him—he cannot act on his anger, even if he wanted to. He _must_ not, because it would leave him alone, and being alone is more terrifying than any war he could ever enter.

He misses Tubbo.

///

He sits until the sun sets. Wilbur doesn’t come after him. Time drags. When the moon suffocates the light, he returns inside of his own volition. Darkness is no way to die.

He doesn’t hear anyone speaking, so he creaks the door open as cautiously as possible. Facing Techno’s wrath is not high on his priority list; he does not want to wake him up.

The torches have been smothered, but a dull light radiates from where the furnace still glows. Wilbur sits on his bed. He glances up from sorting dyes when Tommy clicks the door shut. 

“Hey,” Wilbur says. 

“Hi.”

He nods to the furnace. “I kept it warm.”

“Thanks,” Tommy says. He doesn’t move toward it, though. He glances around the room, eyebrows furrowing. “Where’s Techno?”

Wilbur returns his focus to the dye. He shrugs lightly. “He left for a bit.”

“What?”  


“You heard me.”

“Yeah, but—what?” Tommy steps toward him. “What do you mean he left? He just got here! I didn’t see him leave! Where—”

“Heaven above, Tommy. Relax.”

“What does that even mean? What if I said hell below? That doesn’t answer anything!”

Wilbur snorts. He brings the stone in his hand down against the yellow flowers sitting in the bowl before him. They crush into powder. “Look,” he says frankly. “You know how I feel about him.”

“Well, yeah, but you wouldn’t have contacted him if you didn’t trust him—”

Wil’s head snaps up. His eyes are full of a fire that Tommy doesn’t want to come to know. “Don’t pretend to understand things you don’t,” he says.

Tommy steps back. “What?” he asks. “I’m not pretending to understand anything. I _don’t_ understand at all! I’m asking you to explain!”

Wilbur doesn’t respond. He pounds the stone against the flowers. Petals crumple into dust.

But Wilbur’s silence has never set well with Tommy, so he presses, “Why would you bring him here if you didn’t trust him?”

“Go to bed, Tommy.”

“ _No_ , Wil,” Tommy says, voice raising with every syllable. “You don’t get to do this. It’s just _us_ , now. Just us! Tubbo’s gone, Niki’s gone, Fundy’s gone— _everyone_ is gone. We’ve lost them all. You can’t just choose to shut me out!”

The silence rings with the unsaid words— _I can’t lose you, too_. 

They both know that’s what is meant. They both ignore it. It is too soon to consider.

“I’m not shutting you out of anything,” Wilbur says quietly. “I’ve been transparent with everything I’ve done.”

“Then _explain_ ,” Tommy begs. “Please.”

“I don’t trust him,” Wilbur says. He switches the yellow flowers for pink ones.

Tommy waits for more. Nothing comes.  


“Why did you bring him, then?” Tommy asks. 

Wilbur looks up. He holds Tommy’s eyes. He raises his eyebrows.

He returns to his flowers. 

Tommy understands. His stomach drops.

_For you_.

Wilbur brought Techno for him.

“You didn’t need to,” Tommy whispers. 

“Yes,” Wilbur says. “I did.”

“No, Wil. If you don’t trust him, he shouldn’t be here.”

“You trust him, Tommy. I trust you.”

Sweat pools on Tommy’s palms. He rubs them frantically against his trousers, but his trousers are damp from the grass, so his hands come away wetter than they started. His heart beats in time with his head, and the fragments of thoughts running through his mind are irrational screams. 

“Okay, but your judgement should always be the basis for our decisions. I know I joked around a lot about wanting to be president, but I’m serious, Wil. _You’re_ in charge. I don’t want that kind of—that’s a lot of pressure, you know? What if something happens, and—”

“Stop,” Wilbur says, shaking his head. “You’re so paranoid.”  


“Well, yeah,” Tommy says, thinking of a _friend_ leading them into a bunker full of TNT, a coalition of a dictator and an ex-business partner, a best friend tearing down a wall. “I think it’s justified.”

“I won’t blame you if something happens,” Wilbur says, cutting to the crux of Tommy’s anxiety because of course he does, because he’s always been too perceptive for Tommy’s good. “You didn’t force me to bring him here, Tommy. I didn’t have to send the letter.”

Tommy nods, swallowing his relief. Wilbur switches the pink flowers to red. 

“If it ends up a good decision, you get the credit. If not, I get the blame. Understand?”

Tommy drags a hand down his face. “That isn’t fair at _all_ , Wil—”

“Do you understand, Tommy?”

He doesn’t want to have to understand. He doesn’t want Wilbur to make a stupid choice just because he thinks it’s a good idea. Yes, he wants Technoblade here, but he understands Wilbur’s distrust. At the end of the day, no one’s opinion should win out unless they’ve compromised. They’re in this together. They need to make decisions like they remember that.

But this decision was made, and these consequences were already in motion. Nothing he says will change that now. 

“Yes,” Tommy says. “Alright.” 

///

Technoblade returns in the morning, hoes under his armpits and a rucksack full of seeds on his back. Tommy knew he was strong, but he never expected him to be able to carry three hoes and forty pounds of seeding at once. He’s impressed.

Wilbur’s greetings are cold. Techno’s are awkward. Tommy tries to make up for it with extra enthusiasm, but charisma hasn’t come as easily of late. After a few minutes, conversation dies. 

They plan to make a farm, Wilbur informs him. They must stay inconspicuous, of course, so the blueprints stretch along a cave beneath them—away from potential eyes.

“Everything’ll grow slower without sunlight,” Tommy muses, mouth full of the dinner he’d forgotten to eat last night. “What are we gonna plant?”

“Potatoes,” Techno says immediately.  


Tommy raises his eyebrows. “Any particular reason?”

“I like them,” he says. 

Tommy blinks. He turns to Wilbur. “Wow. Alright. I’m convinced.”

“Thank you,” Techno says. “I’ve been considering going into government.” 

“No, you haven’t,” Tommy says. 

“No, I haven’t,” Techno agrees. 

“If you went into government, there wouldn’t be a government.”

“You’re not wrong,” Techno says. “Anarchy is the ultimate goal.”

“I’m fine with potatoes,” Wilbur says loudly. “We’ll have to watch them carefully, but I think they’ll sprout underground. Tommy, we need soil and water. Techno, come with me. We’ll check out the cave.”

Tommy scowls. “What? Why do I get the worst job? I want to see the cave.”

“And you can,” Wilbur says, hauling his pickaxe onto his shoulder. He raises his eyebrows at Tommy. “ _After_ you get soil and water.”

Without another word, he turns and heads into what tunnel they’ve already dug out. 

“You just don’t think I can fight!” Tommy calls after him. “I’ve beaten _Dream_ , you naive moron. I’m not a child!” 

“Yes, you are,” Wil returns, voice bouncing off the walls. He turns a corner and disappears.

Tommy swears under his breath. He shoves his hands through his hair. 

“If it makes you feel any better,” Techno says—Tommy jumps; he’d forgotten he was there—“you _are_ a child.”

Tommy swings to face him, scowling. “How the hell is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Techno shrugs. “All I’m saying is it would be worse if you _weren’t_ a child, and he called you one. But you are a child, so it’s fine. It doesn’t have to be an insult if it’s the truth.”

“I don’t like you,” Tommy says flatly. “Your logic sucks.”

“Hey,” Techno drawls. “I’m here for a long time, not a good time.”

That draws a _tiny_ smile from Tommy. He’s still angry, though, so he forces it down. 

It doesn’t matter—Techno has already seen it. He looks far too satisfied for Tommy’s liking as he turns to follow after Wilbur.

Wilbur, who can’t hear them right now. 

He feels a little guilty, but he can’t pass up the chance. Wilbur won’t leave them alone again.

“What did you and Wil talk about yesterday?” he asks quietly. 

Techno freezes in the tunnel’s threshold.

“I know you don’t trust each other,” he continues, swallowing his thrumming heartbeat. At least the smugness has dropped from Techno’s posture. “But I trust you both. I think I deserve to know.”

“You shouldn’t,” Techno says. He doesn’t turn around.

“Shouldn’t know?”

“No. You shouldn’t trust us.”

“What?”  


Techno drops his chin to his chest. 

“I’ve known you guys almost my entire life,” he says, laughing a little to relieve the burden of Techno’s silence. “You and Wilbur and Tubbo. I think that’s reason enough to trust someone.”

“Is it?” Techno asks. He readjusts his grip on the hoe in his hand. “Where is Tubbo right now?”

Tommy blanches. “Don’t be stupid,” he says. “Wilbur must have filled you in. Tubbo didn’t stay behind on purpose. He would nev—he _had_ to stay. Schlatt made him!”

“He couldn’t have run?” Techno asks. “When you and Wilbur left, he couldn’t have escaped with you?”

“No!” Tommy exclaims, vehement in his desperation for his words to be the truth. Seashells of doubt litter the clear beach in his mind; he forces the water to sweep them away. “No. Schlatt would have hurt him or caught him or killed him.”

Techno stays silent. 

A wave of seashells crawls to shore. 

“ _No_ ,” he continues, though there’s nothing new to dispute but the demons in his own mind. “You _know_ Tubbo. So does Wilbur, and Wilbur agrees with me. It’s _Tubbo._ He would never do that.”

“Listen,” Techno says. He turns, now, and faces Tommy with an appeasing expression. Something glints in his eye—something different, something darker; something experienced—but Tommy is too distracted to notice. “Trust is dangerous, okay? Putting your life in someone else’s hands is stupid. You’ve got to put yourself before anyone else, because not a single person in the world isn’t doing the same thing. No one else is looking out for you, even when it feels like they are.”

All of the blood drains from Tommy’s face. “What?” he manages. “What are you talking about?”

Techno pulls a slip of paper from his pocket and extends it toward him. “If it makes you feel any better,” he says.

Tommy takes the paper.

Techno turns and walks down the tunnel.

///

Tommy tucks the paper into his shirt. He doesn’t look at it until nightfall, when moonlight glints off the lake and silvers the words on the sheet. 

The script and the diction and the syntax—all of it is Wilbur’s. The letter was in his possession, too. Techno must have picked it off of him. 

Tommy is grateful. 

He sits against a tree far away from the house, and carefully unfolds it.

_Technoblade,_

_You’ll be surprised upon receiving this, I’m sure. It may comfort you to know right away that it was not my original intention, nor is it now my principal goal, to recruit you to our side. I have, however, been influenced by someone capable of swaying anyone when given enough time. He is the loudest human being I have ever known._

_He’s been silent the past few days._

_I do not know where you are, so I do not know if you have heard. I apologize if the information is repetitive, yet potential for my peace of mind demands I tell you. L’Manberg has fallen. Schlatt and Quackity collated their votes. Schlatt is now president. My citizenship has been revoked. So has Tommy’s. Tubbo has remained behind—whether by force or by will remains to be seen. It pains me to admit—and Tommy will not hear a word of it—but I would be unsurprised if it was the latter._

_I acknowledge that we have had our differences in the past. We have…_ varied _ideas, to say the least, about what is best for Tommy. I think you will agree, though, that where he is concerned, our ultimate goal is his welfare._

_We are desperate, Technoblade. We have nothing. We have no one. They are searching for us, and it will not be long until we are found._

_Surely if the death of my pride is not reason enough, we can combine our efforts for Tommy’s benefit. No matter what happens, he must stay safe. I know this; you know this._

_He does not._

_That is the issue: he will do anything for us. Worse still, he will do anything for_ Tubbo _—who, as I’m sure you will agree, cannot be trusted. He cares little for his own life when ours are at stake. He acts recklessly, irrationally. We must keep him safe._

_You need not write me back, no matter your decision. I have written our coordinates on the inside of the envelope._

_Make the best decision, Technoblade—but not for yourself._

_For him._

_Wilbur Soot_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you'd like to read more--I haven't decided if I'll continue it or not. Thank you so much for reading!<3


	2. loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally CANNOT wait for the stream tomorrow AHHHH--
> 
> Here is this in the meantime. You were all SO nice about the first chapter, and I really, really hope you like this one! :D

The soles of his shoes have worn out. A splinter digs into his heel. The planks are rough beneath his feet—days and weeks and months of neglect have exhausted them. 

It doesn’t matter. 

All that matters is the masked man in front of him. 

His hands shake. His mouth dries. His heart pounds. 

He’s stupid. So, _so_ stupid. Reckless and irrational and short-sighted, and Wilbur was _right_. He _told_ him not to be emotional today. He told him that it would be costly. 

Yet here he stands. 

The splinter draws blood. It is cold. It smells of iron.

The bow is flimsy. It isn’t even his, he doesn’t think—he doesn’t remember making it. He must have nicked it from someone else. 

He doesn’t know what to do. Surely, surely he cannot aim to kill. Surely, surely, he should not even aim to hurt. 

But he made this deal. _He_ initiated the violence. 

It is his fault. 

It is his fault, and this is his burden. 

Their future lies in his hands. 

Surely, surely he cannot aim to kill; he should not even aim to even hurt. 

Surely— _surely_ —he must not do anything else. 

He must aim to hurt. He must aim to kill.

He never asked for this—but, then, he did, didn’t he? Didn’t he ask to be in this exact position? Ten feet away? One shot away?

From _freedom_. 

From _bondage_.

From _death_.

His hands shake. 

The pressure is too much. The burden is too much. 

He is _scared_. 

He will not admit it. 

Someone—he cannot even remember who—shouts _ten_ , and he turns around. 

He is bleeding before his arrow leaves the string.

(It was never meant to be.)

///

He shoots up from the grass.

It is raining, but it does not matter—there is already water on his face. His tears flow easily, constantly, not minding at all that they are unwelcome. He does not know how long he has been crying. He does not know how long he has sat here. He does not know how long he slept for.

He does not know anything, actually, except the wood against his fingers and the arrow in his chest and it feels like it is still lodged there, and water is still everywhere, and he is drowning, drowning—

There is water now, too—rain—and it is suffocating. He sinks back down against the tree, coughing violently, trying to rid it from his throat, from his lungs. His entire body shakes. Every limb is frozen. He hugs his knees to his chest. He drops his head. The hammering rain silences his sobs. 

He is a man, and men do not cry. Men shoot to kill, and men do not miss. Men do not mind a little blood, a little pain. Men do not worry about trifles like friendship, like freedom. Men are strong. Men are warriors.

He is not a man. 

But he is _not_ a child. He _cannot_ be a child. It is impossible. It doesn’t make any sense.

Children cry, maybe, but they do not shoot at all. They do not need to choose to aim to kill or aim for the sky, because they never shoot in the first place. Children do not see blood except for on their scraped knee. Children do not experience pain except for stubbing their toes. Children are too ignorant to comprehend the gravity of friendship, the concept of freedom. Children are weak. Children are cowards.

Who is he, then? 

If he cannot be a man, but he cannot be a child, who is he?

///

“There you are,” a mild voice says. 

Someone pokes Tommy’s shoulder. He blinks raindrops off his eyelashes. 

He squints and tries to speak; he cannot. He clears his throat, coughs, and tries again. “Techno?”

“Mm. Wilbur’s going to murder me.”

Tommy sits up and rubs his temple to try and banish his confusion. Early wisps of light peek over the horizon, making the dewey grass and dripping trees blush. The lake glints golden, too.

The _lake_. 

His eyes widen.

“I fell asleep,” he says, shoving his hand into his coat pocket in a frantic search for the reason, coughing a little at the sudden movement. His chest feels full of water. “I must have fallen asleep.”

“That’s apparent,” Techno says blandly.

He slumps in relief when his fingers brush the slip of paper. Somehow it’s remained dry.

Techno turns and starts to walk away.

Tommy furrows his eyebrows. He scrambles to his feet. “Where are you—” He bends over, posting his hand out to brace himself on the tree as a wave of vertigo overtakes him. He squeezes his eyes shut and splutters out a cough. 

When it has passed, he spits on the ground and glances up to see Techno looking at him, unimpressed. 

Tommy scowls. “It’s just a cough,” he says defensively. 

“Hey,” Techno says, holding up his hands. “I didn’t say anything.”

He turns to walk away again. 

“Where are you _going?”_

“Where do you think?”

“Why would I ask if I already knew?”

“I’m going to the End,” Techno says dryly. 

Tommy rolls his eyes and takes the bait. “There’s no _chance_ you have enough pearls.”

“Okay,” Techno says, smirking. 

Tommy gapes. “No way.”

“I have a lot of free time, Tommy.”

“How did you—but there’s—you have _twelve_ pearls? How did you get _twelve_ pearls?”

“I’m just doing what I need to,” Techno says. 

“You don’t need to go to the End.”

“No. I still need the pearls.”

Tommy scowls. “Could you be any more ambiguous?”

“Yes,” Techno says.

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Just tell me why you need the pearls.” 

“I need an escape route for when Wilbur inevitably attacks me.”

Tommy scrunches his nose. “You could beat him with your eyes closed.”

“You aren’t wrong,” Techno says. 

“So could I, you know,” Tommy says, and pauses walking to cough again.

“Uh huh,” Techno says.

“I could,” he insists. “I’m a hand-to-hand god.”

“Again, I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

“I—well, good. It’d be stupid if you did.”

Techno doesn’t answer, just keeps walking, eyes steadily trained before them.

“Besides,” Tommy says, not liking silence—never liking silence. “He isn’t going to attack you.”

Techno snorts. 

“What?” he presses. “I’m not kidding. It’s _Wilbur_. He brought you here. He won’t hurt you.”

“You didn’t see him,” Techno says. 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Techno glances at him, one eyebrow raised. “You’ve been gone all night, Tommy,” he says pointedly.

Tommy furrows his eyebrows and misses the point. 

///

The gap between them increases. 

As sunlight dapples the clearing, Techno’s pace picks up. Tommy lags behind. Techno isn’t _impatient_ with him, per se—he never says or does anything to pressure Tommy’s sluggish body to move faster—but it’s obvious he isn’t particularly thrilled. 

Every few minutes, he’ll stretch the distance so large that he’s out of earshot and only hardly in view. Every time, Tommy is sure he’ll keep walking and leave him behind. 

He doesn’t. He turns and waits until Tommy can see him, and then he keeps walking. 

Half a mile from the house, they slip into a thicket—Techno first, Tommy after. It’s lush and dense and difficult to see, but last night’s rain makes footsteps obvious enough in the mud. 

He shivers as he walks, and pulls his coat tighter around him. The motion shuffles the letter from his coat onto the ground.

He bends over to pick it up, and is about to brush stray dirt away when he catches echo of a vicious sneer. “I should have known,” a distant voice says—hard and cold.

Tommy blinks dumbly. 

The voice is _Wilbur’s_.

“Where is he?” Wilbur demands, and Tommy can make it out clearly, now—can picture in his mind exactly what’s happening. He takes off at a sprint, ignoring the burning in his chest and the screaming of his legs. “What did you do with him?”

“Nothing,” Techno says—forever monotonous, forever emotionless. Tommy stumbles over a rock, rights himself, and shoves through a curtain of leaves. “I found him on my way here.”

“Likely story,” Wilbur growls. 

“Well, the chances are actually pretty _un_ likely,” Techno says, louder with each step that Tommy takes. “He fell asleep against a tree that happened to be right in my path.”

“Then where _is_ —”

“Wil,” he says, emerging through the last of the brush. It’s the only syllable he can manage before hacking a cough. 

Wilbur spins toward him, sword dropping, hands lowering as they release a seemingly unaffected—

_Technoblade?_

Wilbur had had Techno pinned against the tree, sword to his chest. 

Confusion only makes Tommy cough more. 

They didn’t trust each other, sure—but to _kill_ him? To even _think_ of it, when all they had was each other? 

“Where the hell have you been?” Wilbur asks, unable to fully mask his relief with anger. 

His coughs die out, leaving his voice raspy and raw. “I fell asleep by the lake,” he says. “Last night.”

Wilbur’s jaw clicks. “Techno found you?”

Tommy nods. “Yeah. He woke me up. He said—well, he kinda predicted the future, actually.”

Wilbur scowls at the nonsensical words. 

Techno shrugs. “Told you.”

“He said you’d—” 

He cuts himself off, swallowing. It might be a joke, in some alternate reality—lightening the atmosphere, expelling the sword that lies nearly guilty at Wilbur’s feet—but it is not, here. The fact that Techno’s absurd statement turned out to be the _truth—_

“What?” Wilbur snaps. 

“Never mind,” Tommy says. “He found me by the tree. I swear. We walked back together…ish. He’s a fast walker.”

Wilbur frowns, momentarily distracted. “ _You’re_ a fast walker,” he says. 

Tommy shrugs—choosing, for the moment, to keep the pain in his chest to himself. Under normal circumstances, he’s almost certain Wil would see right through him. 

But these circumstances are not normal—nor have they been normal for some time—and either Wilbur doesn’t look close enough, or Tommy has improved his mask of innocence, because Wilbur nods tightly. 

Tommy slumps in relief. 

He turns to Techno, face set. “We’ll see you at the house,” he says.

Techno takes the hint. 

It surprises Tommy, actually, how easily he takes it—he leaves without a word. He’s never been one to understand social interactions or conform to social cues, but he is not stupid. There is still a sword in Wilbur’s hand.

Tommy thinks he would read the cue, too. 

When he’s out of earshot, Wilbur tugs his hands through his hair. He takes a deep, shaky breath. 

He turns back to Tommy. “You can’t do that,” he says.

Tommy winces at the edge in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I don’t care if you _meant_ to or not, Tommy. Do you know how lucky you were? Do you know how many things could have hurt you—could have _killed_ you? You fell asleep by a _lake_. At _night_. You could have—” Wilbur covers his face with his hands. “ _Ender_ , Tommy, you could have—”

“I didn’t,” Tommy mumbles, flushing guiltily. “I’m okay.”

“Yes, but it’s the _principle_ of the matter, isn’t it? Forget all the mobs—one of Schlatt’s spies could have found you. What would you have done then?”

“Fought them, probably.”

Wilbur scowls. “This isn’t a _joke._ ”

“And I’m not joking. It was an accident. I _promise_.”

“It was _careless_ , Tommy.”

“I know we have to be careful, but—Wil. They don’t know where we are. We’ve got to stop living like they do.”

Wilbur’s head is shaking before he even finishes speaking. “No, Tommy. You’ve got it completely backwards. You—”

He stops, narrowing his eyes at Tommy’s arm. 

Tommy glances down, and realizes. 

No. No, not narrowed at his arm. Wilbur is staring at his _hand_. 

The one holding the letter. The letter he had forgotten to return to his coat pocket. 

He shoves it away now—entirely conspicuous; entirely damning—and pales considerably.

Wilbur’s silence is terrifying. 

“Look, Wil,” he starts. “I really don’t see why it’s such a big deal. There was nothing bad inside of it, and—”

“He gave it to you,” Wil says, voice low and furious. “Didn’t he?”

“No,” Tommy lies, not wanting Wil to turn around and swing his sword through Techno’s back. “I filched it myself.”

“Yeah, right,” Wilbur mutters. 

“I’m serious.”

Wilbur glares. 

“I don’t _get_ it, Wil,” Tommy snaps—suddenly cold, suddenly scared, suddenly furious. “Why can’t I know? It’s a _letter_. It’s literally about _me!_ Why don’t you—why don’t you _trust_ me anymore? What did I do?”

Sheathing his sword, Wilbur turns away. “None of this is about you at all, Tommy.”

The letter sits heavy and burdensome against his chest, and it says definitively otherwise. Which Tommy _hates_ —he hates that his life could determine how someone else’s is spent; he hates that his life may someday determine how someone else’s ends—but which is true. 

The paper says otherwise.

Then why— _why_ —is Wilbur lying?

Everything in him collapses at once. L’Manberg is lost, and will not soon be retrieved. Tubbo is gone, and Wilbur thinks it is intentional. Technoblade is here, and Wilbur held a sword to his chest. 

There is water in Tommy’s chest and water in his eyes, and Wilbur is walking away from him, and there is no one— _no one_ —he trusts more than Wilbur, but what when Wilbur trusts no one else? Can trust so carefully given be readily received? He doesn’t trust Techno or Tubbo—does he trust Tommy?

The thought is haunting. He gathers himself, blanks his mind, and limps in Wilbur’s footprints. 

///

“Wait—did you just—you’re talking to _me?”_

“He’s talking to the wall,” Techno deadpans.

“That’d make more sense than if he was asking _me_ to—"

“I’m not asking,” Wilbur says shortly. “It’s going to happen.”

Tommy spins to Techno, gaping. “You’re on board with this?”

“I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything, actually. I don’t get a say.”

Wilbur nods. “He’s right. He doesn’t.”

“But— _Wil!”_ Tommy protests. “I’m already a good fighter!”

“And? He’s better than you, Tommy.”

“He’s better than you, too! Why don’t _you_ train with him?”

Wil turns away, shutting the book in his hands and stuffing it under his pillow. “I won’t be useful,” he says. 

Tommy scowls. “Useful for _what?_ Knowing how to fight is always useful.”

Wilbur shakes his head. “I haven’t finalized everything yet,” he says. 

He turns to glare at Techno. “What _is_ it with your guys’ vague answers? Why is no one telling me anything?”

“Don’t look at me,” Techno says dully. “I don’t know any more than you.”

“When I have everything figured out, I’ll explain,” Wil says.

“But—”

“Look, Tommy. You’d be stupid not to do this. It’s a great opportunity. I don’t know why you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” Tommy mutters, withering slightly under Wilbur’s pointed gaze. “It’s—it’s awesome, actually. I’ve wanted to do it forever. I’m just confused why it has to happen now. I mean—we have so much else to do, you know? It doesn’t seem like a priority.”

It doesn’t seem _possible_ , either—what with the water in his lungs and the phlegm in his throat and the blood he’d coughed up as soon as he’d finished listening to Wilbur yell at Techno. His legs are stiff and then they are liquid; his breaths are labored and then they are short. He is hot _everywhere_ —drops of molten lava pour from his skin—but he cannot get warm.

He is not stupid—he knows sickness well. He knows sickness from hazy memories of wet cloths dipped in ice and strewn across his forehead; from Wilbur’s whispered lullabies about family, about love; from late nights in his shared room’s bedside chair, blinking blearily at Tubbo’s fever-induced ramblings.

He knows sickness from fighting it until it passes. Let it run its natural course, let it do its damage, deal with the consequences after. 

This is different.

After “speaking” with Techno, Wilbur had snatched a book from the shelf and holed himself in his room. Tommy had kept to his room as long as he could, too, but he had done the same chores every day for the last while. Things would look suspicious if he did not.

He pulled himself up and made for the underground farm. He bent over to re-adjust the seeding of a fertile patch of soil. 

His lungs squeezed so tight that he could not breathe. He coughed for minutes straight—dropping his seeds, slumping down against the wall, shivering in the relative darkness.

The phase passed. Breathing heavily, he pushed himself up to his feet and away from the wall to continue with his task.

Techno stood right in front of him, lips pursed.

Tommy jumped. “What the—When the hell did you get here?”

“Ten seconds ago,” Techno said. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing so slightly that if Tommy didn’t know to look, he would not have noticed. “What are you doing?”

“Seeds,” Tommy said, gesturing to the bag in his hands. 

“What _were_ you doing?”

Tommy had deflected as well as he was able—which, of course, meant that he did not deflect at all. Techno scrutinized his every step until, finally exhausted beyond being able to feign health, he made back for his room.

As the day progressed, though, performance must have been somewhat convincing, because Techno’s piercing gaze had gradually relaxed. He watches him now warily, not accusingly. 

Somehow, Tommy got lucky. But it’s _Technoblade_. 

He will not get lucky twice.

He cannot slip again. 

They does not have time for sickness, now. They cannot afford it. They do not have the resources or the medicine or the rations. All he can do is wait for it to pass—it is worthless to lie around when he could be working.

He just…cannot let them know.

Wilbur’s plan—for him to train, to spar with Technoblade—is not the optimal way to achieve that goal. In fact, it’s quite possibly the worst suggestion that could have been made. Save, of course, going back into Manberg on some kind of mission—but Wilbur would never plan something that stupid. It was suicide.

“ _Tommy_ ,” Wil says, angrily snapping his fingers in front of his face. 

Tommy blinks his eyes into focus.

“ _Again?”_ Wil demands.

He shakes his head; it makes his vision spin. “No, no. _No,_ Wil. I didn’t leave, I—”

“I _told_ you to quit doing that—”

“I wasn’t in the past! I was listening!”

“Really?” Wil asks, stepping back, folding his arms across his chest. “What did I say?”

“I…” He flushes, wringing his hands at his stomach. “I _was_ listening,” he mutters. “I promise. I didn’t leave. I just zoned out for the last part of what you said.”

Wil sighs. “I said that it was fair,” he says. He runs a weary hand down his face. “Your question, I mean. It might not seem like a priority. And, as I said—I’ll explain everything when I have it figured out. It is our main priority right now, I swear. I wouldn’t place so much emphasis on it if it wasn’t.”

“Okay,” Tommy says, thankful for the resignation that’s replaced anger. He nods, readily agreeing to whatever keeps it that way. “Okay. I’ll get ready.”

“Now?” Techno asks. “I was going to work downstairs.”

Tommy’s forehead pinches. “We don’t have stairs,” he says. 

“I was going to work down-ramp.”

Tommy looks at him strangely. “What’s wrong with—you’re so weird.”

“Thanks,” Techno says. “In five minutes, when you charge me with a sword, I’ll remember that you thought so.”

Tommy’s eyes widen. A straggling laugh escapes his throat, though he valiantly fights it. “Oh, no. No, no, no—that’s actually not what I meant.” 

Techno shrugs. “It’s what you said,” he says. “My brain doesn’t remember context. Just words.”

“Well, remember this: there’s no need to slaughter me. It’s just _sparring._ ”

“No,” Wilbur cuts in, opening the front door. “It’s not. It’s preparation.”

“Same thing,” Tommy says.

“This is realer,” Wil says.

He slips outside.

Tommy blanches—both from the tone of his words and the breeze he let in.

“I thought you were a hand-to-hand god,” Techno deadpans.

“I am,” Tommy says, extremely convincingly.

Techno rolls his eyes. “Don’t be nervous. I’ll only kill you if you make a mistake.”

“You’re such a comforting person.”

“That’s what Carl says.”

Tommy blinks. “ _Karl?”_

“What?”

“Karl said—when did you—you've been talking to _Karl?”_

“He’s a horse, Tommy. He can’t talk. It was a joke.”

_Oh._

_Carl_ , not Karl.

Tommy slumps in relief. His glare does not falter. “Fell a bit flat,” he says. “Also, you’re an idiot.”

Techno pulls a dagger from his boot. “Anything else to add?” Techno asks, and smirks to make sure Tommy knows that he’s joking. “I have a great memory.”

“I surrender,” Tommy says. “We don’t need to fight.”

“I think that’d disappoint Wilbur. Don’t worry, though.” His smirk shifts to a smile. “I’ll go easy,” he promises. He pushes through the door. 

Tommy grabs his armor, and smiles until he coughs.

///

He thought it would be difficult. It is not. 

It is brutal.

It is not brutal due to Technoblade’s proclivity for violence, nor due entirely to Tommy’s inability to breathe.

It takes Techno mere seconds to catch on: Tommy is not at his full capacity. Techno would have taken it easy, anyway; he takes it even easier now. Tommy’s lungs are twin extinguished fire pits—ash where there should be ease; coal where there should be silk—but Techno pulls back when Tommy’s inhales turn to wheezes, and Tommy holds his own.

No. It is not brutal because Technoblade is skilled or because Tommy is sick. 

It is brutal because Wilbur’s drilling is relentless. 

If the session lasted four hours, it may be a different story. If they took consistent breaks during the session, it may be a different story. If the drills didn’t require every stretch of Tommy’s physical and mental capabilities, it may be a different story.

They spar until dusk, and then hours longer. They do not break. The difficulty does not diminish.

When, finally, Wilbur declares them finished, he sends Techno away with an appeased nod. He leaves to get Tommy a bucket of water.

As Wilbur walks away, Techno flicks a drop of sweat from his forehead. A luxury, considering Tommy is drenched in it. 

“Well,” Techno says blandly. “See you tomorrow, I guess.”

“Are we—are we doing this _again?”_ Tommy asks, bending over to catch his breath.

“Dunno,” Techno says. “If we do, I hope it’s a condensed version.”

“You—you _would_ hope,” he says. “You slipped at the—at the end. Too tired. Kept—kept making mistakes.”

“Is that why I never lost?”

“I destroyed you.”

“Ah.”

“And these are my intim—intimidation tactics. In preparation for tomorrow.” 

“What, your words?”

“You remember words,” Tommy says. “Not delivery or context. Just words.”

Techno laughs at the irony. “Good luck with that,” he says. 

Tommy stands up straight, hands raising to the top of his head. “I don’t need it,” he manages.

“I see,” Techno says. Then, soberly, “Take it easy, alright? That was a lot.”

“I’m fine,” Tommy retorts.

“I know,” Techno says. He turns away. “We always are.”

He pushes through the brush right as Wilbur emerges from it. Tommy drops his hands to his side. 

“Well done, Tommy,” Wil says, and hands him the bucket. He sets a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, eyes shining with pride. “You were absolutely incredible.”

Tommy’s smile is shaky. 

///

As soon as they get home, Wil makes him a cup of tea and lights the fire. When either has little effect—to sooth his raw throat or to warm him up—Wil looks at him, concerned.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he lies, forcing every nerve in his body to keep from shivering. He wasn’t sure if nerves were the body part responsible, but the sentiment remained. “I’d tell you if I was hurt, wouldn’t I?”

“Probably not,” Wil says.

“That’s…well, yeah,” Tommy admits. 

“Maybe if you were dying.”

“If I was dying, I wouldn’t be able to speak.”

“There are different ways to die,” Wil says. “Some people speak on their death beds.”

“No,” Tommy protests, solely because he does not want to lose an argument. He isn’t even sure what Wilbur had said. “You’re wrong.”

Wil rolls his eyes. “Why are we even talking about this? Are you okay? That’s what I want to know.”

“I’m fine, Wil,” Tommy says, eyes flicking up to hold his. 

“Promise?” Wilbur whispers.

Tommy swallows. His mouth is pasty. “Promise,” he says.

“Alright,” Wil says, standing. “I’m going to head to bed, then. You should, too. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

“What are we doing?”

“You’ll see,” Wil says. “Just—make sure you get a lot of sleep, okay?”

Tommy struggles to his feet. Before he can open the door to his room, Wil pauses. 

Tommy glances back, one eyebrow raised. “All good?” he asks. 

Wil looks up at him. “I’m just…I’m really proud of you, Tommy. I know I’m hard on you—hell, I know the _world_ is hard on you—but you’ve been handling everything so well. So…so _admirably_. I just—” He breathes a little laugh, running a hand through his hair. Tommy understands. Expressions of affection aren’t really their _thing_. “—need you to know that. Okay?”

Tommy nods. 

Wilbur smiles, and slips inside his room before Tommy can open his mouth.

Tommy stares at the fire. The letter sits heavily inside his pocket.

///

He cannot fall asleep. 

He is boiling and freezing and sweating and shivering—he stands from his bed. It cannot be earlier than midnight. He sees darkness and hears nothing from Wilbur’s room; he has achieved what Tommy cannot. 

He is sneaking toward the chests when he sees it. 

A book.

There is nothing particularly spectacular about a book _._ Let alone a rusty, yellow-paged, soup-stained, leather-bound book. Except that Tommy _knows_ this book. He’d seen it earlier, when Wil had shoved it under his pillow. 

It sits on the table now. Wilbur must have moved it. 

He shouldn’t read it. Of course he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t even think about touching it. Wilbur likely has some high-tech tracker that reports anyone’s fingerprints on the leather. He must have a series of traps ready to spew lava into the offender’s face. 

It’s _Wilbur_. He doesn’t want people to read his book. Of course he’s set up protections.

But, then—it’s _Tommy_. He wants to read the book. 

Of course he does.

He wipes his hands on his trousers before picking it up—it wouldn’t do to leave clammy traces on the leather. He checks his shoulder, too, just in case. He slips into the table’s chair; his legs are shaking from their exertion today, and he cannot stand for another second.

The book is light in his hands. Like its contents hold no weight, hold no influence. He leafs through the pages and discovers it is a journal. 

Most entries are old—before the first war, before L’Manberg.

Only one is recent. 

The script is slick and sloppy. The words slant on the page like some invisible force was yanking Wilbur’s hand away while he wrote it. The date is yesterdays’.

Tommy bites his lip, and ignores the screams in his mind not to read it, not to read it, _do not read it—_

_Seventeen days since the election_

_I have a plan._

_I know my entries here have not been consistent. Written word is evidence, and we cannot afford to be proven guilty._ Guilt _—what an ironic thing. How can I feel guilty when I know we are in the right? I see Tommy suffering—without his home, without Tubbo—and I feel guilt. But we cannot return to L’Manberg. We_ cannot _save Tubbo. We are right, but everything is wrong. We are innocent, but I feel guilty._

_How can it be so?_

_The wall is subject enough to my ramblings; I do not intend to further torture this paper, too. I only write here in hope that you will receive this, Niki—as a letter of sorts—were my plan to fail. I will have this paper on me as soon as our plan is put in action. It is foolproof, I think—yet history has solidified that usually the people claiming such are arrogant fools themselves. I shall not say that, then; I shall only say that this is my fail-safe, in case things go wrong._

_No one knows of my plan. Not Tommy and certainly not Techno—who, I admit, has done little more than he had already done to warrant my suspicion, but who has increased it nonetheless. Neither do they expect anything; they know nothing to this point. I will share with them soon—they will play vital roles—but I must first hammer out some details._

_There are phases to my plan. I must enact the first as soon as possible._

_I must get you out, Niki. Immediately._

_We are friends, yes, but there is more to it than that. I have not forgotten the debt I owe you. I have not forgotten what you did for Tommy all those years ago—when we had nothing, when we had no one. It was how we met, and thank Ender that we did. He does not remember it now, I don’t think, but I will never forget._

_Everything I have—everything_ we _have—I owe to you. To that moment._

_I am not one to easily disregard things of significance. And a life debt, Niki…that is nothing short of miraculous._

_I want to live an honest life, however, and to do so I must speak honestly—I love our friendship, but I do not know if it would otherwise be reason to risk everything. Forgive me my bluntness, I beg: you are my friend, but Tommy is my family. I cannot imagine what I would do without him. Because of this, I would usually forbid even the_ thought _of returning to L’Manberg, of endangering him to rescue anyone—which, by the way, he has suggested more than once._

_It is, then, only my debt that prompts me to this plan._

_I must get to the point before my hand burns off. I hope you understand; I hope you are not hurt. It is my last intention._

_We are coming for you. We are coming to get you out. Something is going to happen, Niki—it is the second part of my plan—and you_ cannot _be there when it does._

_If chance forces my hand, and we fail to retrieve you, you must get out on your own, and you must get out_ before _the festival._

_I do not suggest you leave. I_ implore _you to._

_I trust you, Niki. I trust you not to tell anyone of this. No one around you can be trusted. I will give Tommy fair warning of the second phase of my plan before it happens—he will have sufficient time to warn Tubbo. I fully support him in this: I do not trust Tubbo, but I know how much he means to Tommy. I would not have him hurt._

_We will get you out, Niki. As soon as Tommy is ready. I have spoken with Technoblade, and he will begin training Tommy tomorrow. He cannot enter into this unprepared. While I find you, Technoblade will be doing most of the fighting. Still, though, Tommy must sharpen his skills before we go. Even if he is only there to distract them, he must not be completely unprepared. Techno will make him a better fighter. If he can keep up with Technoblade, he can keep up with anyone._

_He needs to keep up with everyone._

_Schlatt has a country. He has a country, and he is making an army._

_We have our own. We are the fighters. We are coming to save you, Niki._

///

Tommy flops into bed. He swallows convulsively, forcing the bile to abate. Pain rockets through his chest. He is sore. His hands shake.

He cannot close his eyes, because stamps of the journal are imprinted into his mind.

He wants to think about it. He wants to think it through. He wants to understand.

But, more than anything, he does _not_ want to understand. 

He does not want to think it through. He does not want to think about it.

Again, he is stuck. Between wanting and fearing. Between sickness and health. Between anger and longing. Between hatred and love. Between understanding and confusion. 

Between being a child and being a man.

He now knows the answer to that question, at least. It is why he trained with Techno. It is why he will not argue when he is asked to return to L’Manberg to rescue Niki. 

Wilbur wrote it himself.

_We are the fighters_.

Yes. Tommy knows who he is, now. 

He does not know how he missed it before.

He is not a child. He is not a man.

He is a soldier.


End file.
